Page 5 of Surrender to the Highlander (The MacLerie Clan #2)

N ary a hint of a breeze offering a respite from the encasing heat of the habit she’d chosen to wear passed over her. Margriet cursed her own foolishness as sweat gathered on her brow and trickled under the wimple to trace a path down her neck, between her shoulders and onto her back. This was one aspect of her disguise she’d not thought through.

She expected that the habit would offer protection from the untoward advances of the men in the traveling group, and it had. The men treated her and Elspeth with deference and respect and kept a decent distance from them. None seemed to even consider that they were not nuns. None but their leader, for she caught him watching her at the oddest moments and suspected he knew something was amiss.

Or mayhap ’twas her own guilty conscience over the matter?

Her plan made sense; even the reverend mother seemed to agree that it was sound. That was before the journey began, before they left the enclosed valley that surrounded and protected the convent and its lands with an abundance of forests and streams…and blessed shade! They’d left the valley the morning before and still crossed a piece of land that offered nothing but flat, hard ground and nothing growing save for some short bushes and ground-hugging plants.

Aye, her plan had made sense at the beginning. However, the heat had not been one of her concerns and she did not ever remember any of the sisters complaining of it. Yet another bit of proof that she would never be suitable for the religious life. Then, as though he sensed her unspoken acknowledgement, Rurik turned and met her gaze. The moisture increased on her face and now she could feel it trickle down between her breasts. Made worse by her hair, now tucked under her tunic to hide its length, Margriet considered that mayhap she’d chosen the wrong course of action.

Again.

As always.

She sighed and turned her eyes from his. Reaching into her sleeve, Margriet tugged a square of linen free and dabbed at the sweat that threatened to soak her if left untended. It was very difficult to attain the same attitude of unruffled calm that the nuns seemed to have, especially when the clouds cleared above and the sun offered more heat than they needed this day. Looking around for Elspeth, she noticed the girl seemed to like it even less than she did herself. Touching the cloth to her forehead, Margriet wondered if the girl would keep her silence…and their secret until the journey’s end.

“Sister?”

Margriet turned to discover that Sven rode now at her side. He was the most pleasant of the men and he was always considerate of her comfort. “Have you need of something to drink?” He held out a skin and offered its contents to her.

“Many thanks, Sven,” she said as she accepted it, took several swallows and then held it out to him. The water was not cold, but it refreshed her nonetheless. He passed it over to Elspeth, who partook of it as well.

“You might wish to pour some on your cloth and cool your face,” he said and then the man blushed as he realized he spoke of something probably more personal than a man should to a nun. He stammered a moment or two before he got the words out. “My pardon, Sister, but your face is very red and I thought you might be…uncomfortable.”

Trying to lessen his embarrassment, Margriet replied, “I thank you for such concern for my well-being. I would not want to waste our supply on such a selfish thing, no matter that ’twould be a welcome relief in this heat.”

Fearing that her words did not sound religious enough, she added, “And I offer such suffering up in the name of Our Lord.” She raised her eyes heavenward and then closed them for a moment, mimicking the gesture she’d witnessed hundreds, nay, thousands of time during her years at the convent.

Margriet did unfold the cloth and try to find a dry patch to absorb the gathering beads of sweat. She knew not of the plans for their journey, but hesitated to use their water for her own comfort. Again, the thought that she’d made a mistake crossed her mind. Sven nodded and offered the water to them again, and after each took a few sips, he urged his horse into a quicker pace than she could maintain and took his place at the front of the group.

Where he rode this day.

She realized she was the topic of conversation when Rurik turned to look back at her and then shared more words with Sven. Margriet had barely a few minutes to wallow in her discomfort when Sven returned to her side.

“We will reach a river soon, so you should not worry over using the water to cool your brow,” he said.

Caught by her own lying words, Margriet fretted over what to do. The part of her that was melting in the heat wanted to grab up the skin and pour every drop of the remaining water over her head. But, the part of her that usually thought things through triumphed in this and she allowed him to pour a few drops on the linen, before dabbing her brow and cheeks with it.

“Many thanks for your consideration, Sven. I admit that this heat is unexpected and a trial.”

He moved his horse to walk next to hers and took the water skin from her. The group still moved at the same pace, but ’twas a slower one than they’d maintained the first two days of their journey. Those days were lost in a fog, for she could only remember the misery of leaving the convent behind and the pain of traveling on the back of a horse.

Her journey to the convent all those years ago she did not remember at all, having only eight years and mourning the loss of her mother. So, having naught with which to compare, she thought this journey must surely be the worst of her life.

She waited for the man to speak and when he did not, she fell quiet, sinking back into her thoughts of the journey ahead and the repercussions of her fall from grace. Sven drifted back to a place next to Elspeth and she could hear his words as he stumbled over the correct pronunciation of the words in Elspeth’s Gaelic tongue.

Looking at the rest of the men, she only then realized that they were a mix of Scots and those from her homeland in the Orkneys. Rurik, Sven, Magnus and six more sounded clearly at home with both the formal court language and that of the common people. Four of the others, as well as Elspeth, spoke only Gaelic.

Rurik was the only one who spoke all three.

Glancing ahead, she watched his silhouette as he guided the travelers along this road. Tall and muscular, both on and off his mount, he spoke little and gave few orders, yet there was no doubt that he commanded this group. Both the Scots and those from Orkney attended to his words and directions with a quiet acceptance, as one does with an acknowledged leader, much as the sisters did with the reverend mother.

The other thing she noticed about him was that he remained apart, from nearly everyone including Sven and Magnus. Those two—she glanced over at Sven, who was still speaking, or rather trying to, with Elspeth—were friends of long-standing. She could tell by their easy manner with each other. They also seemed to have some connection to Rurik, for they spent time with their heads together, plotting and planning, each day.

But what about Rurik?

As though her thoughts had spoken his name, he turned back and met her gaze. Margriet touched the linen to her face once more and looked away, unable or unwilling to face his intense scrutiny. There would be time on this journey to discover his secrets. Sven knew something about him and his reasons for overseeing her return and had referred to it while they walked in camp that first night. Before Rurik interrupted his words…

So, there were secrets here to be discovered!

As always happened when faced with a task, Margriet’s mind began to swirl and plan the best way in which to accomplish it. By the time they reached the river’s edge, she saw all the steps in the path to finding out who Rurik was and his reasons for taking on the mission of bringing her home.

The place chosen for their stop that night was pleasant. Looking around the area near her tent and the central fire, Margriet noticed the branches of the trees moving in the breezes that soothed her after the heat of the day. Any relief was certainly dulled by the layers of clothing she wore, but ’twas still more comfortable than the midday sun’s glaring rays when there was no shade to blunt them.

Now, sitting on a stool fashioned from the stumps of some fallen trees and eating a surprisingly well-cooked stew, Margriet watched as the men broke off into smaller groups divided, as near as she could tell, by language and origin. The Scots sat away from the fire, passing a skin of ale between them, while those from the north sat nearer.

Rurik did not eat, but paced around the camp, checking horses and supplies. Seeing an opportunity, she rose and went to the fire. Dipping the long-handled spoon in the cooking pot, she scooped out a serving of the food and carried it to where he stood now. His surprise sat plainly on his face, but he nodded and took it from her.

“You need not serve me, Sister,” he said before accepting an eating spoon that she also carried to him.

“I have so little to do, sir. Other than pray, of course. And ’tis the least I can do to show my appreciation.”

He ate a few more mouthfuls without saying another word. Sven walked over with a battered cup and a skin of ale, which he held out to Rurik. Handing her his bowl and spoon, she watched as he first poured some into the cup before offering it to her, while he simply opened his mouth and filled it with ale from the skin. After passing it back to Sven, Rurik took back his food and ate it in silence.

Margriet sipped from the cup as she considered which questions to ask first. If she were too aggressive, he would back away. Too soft in her approach and he would wile his way out of answers that would enlighten her about him and his past.

“Why do you not wish to escort me to my father?”

“Pardon?” he asked, stopping with his spoon halfway between the plate and his mouth.

“’Tis clear to me that you do not want this duty. Why did you agree to it then?” She lifted the cup to her lips and forced another sip, trying with all her might to remain calm and pursue her intentions to discover more about him.

She’d caught him by surprise, she could tell. His eyes widened even as his mouth stopped chewing the food in it. He tried to swallow then, but Margriet knew he would choke.

And he did.

When his breath collided with that food, he convulsed with loud coughs. The plate flew through the air as he leaned over and, with his hands on his thighs, tried to loosen the blockage from his throat. Without stopping to think, Margriet ran to his side and began pummeling him on his back.

A few minutes went by before he stopped choking and she continued delivering blows until he did. After what seemed to be ages of time had passed, he waved her off and Margriet stepped back. ’Twas then she noticed the quiet that surrounded them.

To a person, everyone in the camp stood, mouths agape, staring at them. No one moved as she adjusted her wimple back to where it should sit on her head and as she tugged her robes back in place. When she had regained her composure and her breath, for beating the warrior’s back with her bare hands was hard work, she cleared her own throat and turned back to Rurik.

“Are you well now?” she asked.

“Now that I can breathe again or now that you have stopped trying to pound me into the ground?” Sarcasm laced his words and the sting of it slashed at her.

Humiliation pulsed through her body, making her heart pound in her chest and bringing the heat of embarrassment to her face. Worse, she felt the burning of tears in her eyes and her throat, forcing her to look away from him.

Why had she thought that she could face down a man, and one such as this one, and get her way? Margriet lowered her head and turned, hoping to walk quickly to some darkened corner of the camp where she could wait until the horror of her actions dissipated or at least until everyone ceased staring. She’d only taken a few steps when his voice stopped her.

“Sister, my thanks for your assistance,” he said loud enough for all to hear. Rurik watched as she stopped, unsure if she would still bolt, as the look in her eyes declared, or if she would remain. He waited and then held out his hand to her. “And my thanks for bringing me food.”

He stepped closer, though not too close, and glared over her head at those who still gawped at her, ordering their gazes away with a nod of his head. Only the little nun still watched, though hers was a look of concerned observation rather than a curious one.

Rurik had not realized his words were as harsh as they were until he saw the horror and embarrassment fill her face. ’Twas the tears he spied in the last moment before she fled that undid him. When she still did not take his hand, he bent over and picked up the cup she’d been drinking from and motioned to Sven for the skin of ale. Once filled, he offered it to her.

Margriet took a sip and then another, and he waited in silence while she regained her wits. Well, if the truth were told, she’d not lost her wits, only her control. He suspected that losing control was something that did not happen often to the lady, nun or no’. Instead of staring at her now pale face, he turned back to the task he’d left when she’d brought him food—checking the supplies for the next day’s journey.

After seeing her distress on the first days of their travel, he’d agreed to several changes in their plans. First, they broke the distance into small bits so that they could travel more slowly each day. Second, they changed their route, deciding to follow more of the rivers north then across the coast to the village of Thurso, where they would take a boat to Orkney. Third, although they carried most of their food with them, they now sent men ahead to the small settlements along their path to barter for fresh food and necessities.

Although his assignment was to bring her home, he had only the wild seas and winds of winter to limit his time to do that. That might be stretching it a bit thin, but he knew any arrangements would wait until their return and so the only rushing he did was that which he wished to do.

Or so he told himself over and over again since meeting the woman called Gunnar’s daughter.

She moved behind him and he turned to face her. In that moment, watching her eyes and her expression as they changed from dark and untrusting to something more open and welcoming, he knew he must answer her question.

“Returning you to your father is my duty, one I accepted and will carry out as requested. Duty though is no’ always conveniently timed and that is my hesitation.”

Could she hear the lie in his words? This was a duty he did not want and—even more now that he’d met her—one that he regretted. She had not wanted to leave the convent, as she said over and over again, but she had no choice in the matter. Her father called her home to her duties to their family and honor.

As his called him.

His explanation pleased her at some level, for she raised her face to him now, not cowering or hiding any longer. The light of the setting sun behind him brightened her eyes and made her lips look fuller and softer. She spoke again, now, and this time her voice strengthened to what he knew it could be.

“You speak the Highland tongue as though you were born to it,” Margriet said. “Are you Scot and not from Norway or Sweden?”

“My mother is Scottish, from the west.”

Rurik decided that was all he need reveal. In spite of the offer relayed to him by Sven and Magnus, he would believe it only when the words came from his father’s mouth. Allegiances changed. Arrangements changed. No need to hold himself up to shame if more promises were broken.

She did not ask another question, but seemed to think on his words. Sipping from the cup, she watched him as he continued his inspection. When he stepped away, she followed, never missing a thing he did. Finally, when the constant observation irritated him, he looked at her.

“Is there something you need, Sister?” he finally asked. “I cannot pay attention to the task at hand if I am conversing with you.”

“Nay,” she said with a shake of her head.

The wimple that had tilted precariously while she beat his back was now back in place, hiding the hair he knew would be bouncing around her shoulders if freed from its constraints.

Great Frey’s Eyes, he lusted after a nun! With each attempt to rein it back and tamp it down, it reared again with the slightest gesture that reminded him of the woman beneath the garb. A shake of her head and he was lost? How could he have so little control?

When he thought she would return to her meal and the others, she did not. Instead, she finished the ale in one tilt of the cup and then looked at him.

“I wished to walk to the river and need your permission,” she said. The lowering of her head for a moment would have appeared to anyone watching as acquiescence, however only he could see the flash of anger that darkened her eyes to a darker shade of blue.

Margriet Gunnarsdottir did not ask anyone’s permission to do anything, they seemed to say, and he suspected it for the truth. Rurik nearly laughed at her attempt to placate him, but decided this bore watching.

“Sven, come!” he yelled. When his friend approached, he pointed at Margriet. “Escort the sisters to the river’s edge. There might be a cooling breeze there to ease the heat.”

She spoke no words of thanks to him. She said nothing at all and only granted him the smallest of nods in exchange for the consent she sought. Rurik knew the area was safe, for both he and his men had searched it thoroughly before setting up their camp. And, if she were gone, he could finish his work before the sun set.

Or so he told himself.

And that was but another lie heaped on the ones he already said or thought. He’d been living a lie for years, portraying the man those with whom he lived and fought next to expected him to be, and he’d lost the man he truly was. His sudden arrival without explanation at his uncle’s holding, his upbringing in Sweden and Norway and on the Orkneys and his appearance—tall, blond, strong—all helped him create the facade of a Viking warrior of legend. He resisted a smile as he remembered but a few of the women and their reactions to him. On the verge of full manhood, their brazen interest in his growing sexual prowess spurred him on and he discovered that he loved women…and they loved him.

Now, he must find the truth of the real man within before confronting his father and the demands that family and honor required. Still though, his practiced behavior of the last ten years was more comfortable than examining his character, and so he found himself watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.

His gaze followed them—her—as Sven led the women across the camp and toward the river. Sister Elspeth walked with her head down, in prayerful contemplation or in her usual silence he knew not, and in a demeanor closer to what he thought a nun’s should be. The young woman only spoke to Sven, who seemed intent on learning her Gaelic. Rurik shook his head and turned back to his task.

Why Sven bothered himself with the effort he could not understand, for there could be nothing between them and Rurik knew that Sven would not return to this or any part of Scotland. But the young sister laughed softly and corrected Sven’s mangling of the words he tried to say. He decided there was no harm in it. After all, learning another tongue was no’ such a bad way to spend the time on the journey.

A few minutes passed and Rurik mastered his lack of control and completed his inspection. Night approached, but the morn would find them ready to travel. He wanted to take advantage of the fair weather they had now before reaching the blustery and stormy northern edge of the country.

As they traveled farther, the conditions would surely deteriorate and their progress would be slowed. No more summery days with heat like this. No’many days of full sun beating down from above. Nay, he expected that the rain showers and winds of the far north would greet them soon. He surveyed the gathering once more and was about to see if any stew remained in the pot when her scream pierced the calm.

Rurik pulled the sword ever at his side from its scabbard on his belt and took off in a full run, calling out instructions to the men as he passed them. Branches slapped at his face and arms as he pushed through the dense brush. He ran not on the path where the women had walked, but into another area so that his arrival at the river would not be where expected. Better to surprise an attacker than give them the advantage of knowing where you would be.

The scene that met him as he reached the river’s edge was like something from one of the farcical entertainments that Jocelyn planned at Lairig Dubh. One nun sprawled out in the water, the other standing on the edge trying to reach her. Sven standing nearby, laughing like a madman, not helping at all. Then, before he could do anything, the second nun went flying into the water as well. His men crashed through the bushes and circled the bank of the river waiting for his orders.

Sven caught sight of them first and frowned at him. Then the two women, both now mostly under water save for their wimpled heads that bobbled on the surface, noticed them standing at the ready for battle. Rurik could tell the exact moment when Margriet realized that she was the cause of their presence. And their fully armed presence at that. The obvious enjoyment left her face in a rush and she tried to stand up.

“What is amiss here?” he called out.

“Sister Margriet slipped and fell into the water. Sister Elspeth reached out to help her, and you see what happened,” Sven offered, all the while not looking the least bit concerned for either of them. Rurik sent the rest of the men back to the camp and walked closer. “The river flows softly in this spot and they are in no danger.”

Still, it was unseemly for two nuns to be paddling around in the pool formed where the river made a turn. And instead of expressing outrage or fear at the occurrence, they remained in the water for several minutes before swimming over the shallow edge and beginning to climb out. After slipping back into the water twice, each time with a splash and a now-tempered laugh, they managed to climb out.

The whole incident was quite…unsisterly. He’d never known nuns who would take part in such folly and play. He’d never known nuns that reveled in falling in a river and did not scream for help. He’d never known nuns like this…well, actually, now that he thought on it, he’d never known nuns.

Shaking his head, he could not decide if he should help or not. However, when the increased weight of the soggy layers of clothing made it difficult for the women to walk, Rurik sheathed his sword—the one he now noticed he yet brandished in his hand—and strode over to assist them. They should remove their sodden clothes before the chill of the night set in and they took ill from this mishap.

As he reached out for Margriet’s hand, he caught sight of her shoes and stockings placed carefully away from the water’s edge. He caught her eye and saw in the amused glimmer there that this was no accident. She veiled her expression quickly and looked away, but too late. Rurik knew in his gut that she had fallen into the river on purpose. And the other sister as well.

He would ask Sven about this once the women were settled in their tent for the night. And he would keep watch over their behavior on the rest of the trip for something surely was awry. Sven’s words as he passed only confirmed it.

“Puir wee women of God,” he said in Gaelic with an accompanying tsk.

Apparently Sven was learning a new tongue, but not a thing about women.

Puir wee women indeed.